


Give a gun to your despair

by TurtleStudent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: A little bit of angst, Awkwardness, First Dates, First Meetings, How Do I Tag, M/M, No seriously how
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 12:29:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18521551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleStudent/pseuds/TurtleStudent
Summary: Fon and Reborn meet in a bar... this is not that kind of story... or is it. And this is not a good summary, or is it?





	Give a gun to your despair

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting a fanfic ever and first time actually writing down an idea, so maybe kill me kindly? Also a warning, English is not my mother tongue so if there are grammar mistakes or awkward uses of words, please tell me.

Tastes like ash hope. Also too much like blood to be anything good. You probably won't realize immediately you've already choked on it, but when you do, your coffin will have been thrown in the depths of the sea with too many chains to ever dream of breaking free. He's realized it. Sooner than most. But not soon enough to save himself from it.

His hands do tremble still, as they claw their way into people's flesh, but they never cease. They don't have the ability nor the right anymore to stop the paint of red from seeping into skin. His skin. 

It's impossible, he thinks, to wash away, so he burns it instead. Flames upon rage-induced flames turn everything to ash and he doesn't regret. Not really. And if his flames are also a haunting red… well, he's not about to deny who he has become.

…

“Fon,” he hears from a few meters away, and it takes him a few moments longer than it should to realize it's him they're calling. Right, new rank, new name. He turns to look at the caller and recognizes the smiling man as a broker of the Triads, probably here to relay him information about a new mission. He feels tired, but nods with the barest hints of politeness at the other and approaches him with a stiff smile. If the other notices his failed attempts at ‘playing nice’, he makes no mention of them, opting instead to approach as close as a killer can allow and extending one hand for a handshake. 

‘Fon’ blinks once but doesn't shake.

“It's been a while. How have you been? Haven't met you since middle school, don't tell me you've got a girlfriend already?” Seemingly not minding him, the man retracts his hand and starts to speak a hundred miles an hour. Usually the brokers choose their own ways of hiding their activities. Some prefer stealth, and some foxily hide in plain sight like the one before him. Fon understands this, on a professional level, but it doesn't really make up for the fact that it's possibly a most annoying version of hiding in plain sight. “Let's go to a bar to catch up,” the other finishes and Fon almost wants to refuse. He doesn't like bars, and his interest in alcohol ends the moment he thinks of the collateral damage the loss of control because of inebriation could cause. It's only willpower and discipline that stop him from rampaging through the enemy bases, he doesn't need anything that could compromise that. And he likes tea anyway. 

He does follow the man in the end, and as expected new mission parameters are given to him and so little actual information ‘Fon’ is half-convinced they want to kill him. He supposes it makes sense after the mess he made to get his sister out of the country and out of their claws. Not that he will humor them in that regard. 

Some time later, after the broker leaves the bar, ‘Fon’ once again finds himself alone, an untouched drink in front of him which he wants to try burning with his 'flame', but doesn't take the risk in a bar full of civilians. Instead he watches with no real interest the people inside, thinking all the while about his new mission. He wasn't particularly worried. He's still one of the best the Triads have, so they won't let him have such an easy escape as death is wont to be. Instead, he'll be expected to loyally obey until–

“Is this seat taken?”

He doesn't startle. He didn't think he was that distracted but when a voice reaches his ears too close for comfort, it takes one try too many to remain relaxed and unmoving. He turns slowly to watch his unexpected guest and is not surprised to not recognize him. European features that are hard to come by in this particular part of the world, his English impeccable and without the usual accent most Eastern folk seem to have when speaking it, and a touch of blood that only fellow assassins would recognize. The man has a smirk decorating his face, hair black and eyes even darker, and yes, he's not one ‘Fon’ recognizes. He's wary but inclines with a nod of his head and the man doesn't waste a moment and rather gracefully takes the seat. He raises his unique hat a bit in thanks and turns almost flirtatious towards a blushing waitress to order.

A few moments later they are both contemplating and thoughtfully watching each other. He wonders what the man wants and it's not that hard to come into one of two conclusions. He's either been hired to help him, or he's been hired to kill him. The first one is probably not the case. The second one seems logical but doesn't explain why the other is sitting in front of him almost leisurely drinking. His posture is almost relaxed, suit without a single wrinkle, tie slightly loosened and … a single eyebrow raised. 

‘Fon’ blinks and turns his head a bit in question. The man seems almost amused as he asks, “Not going to drink?”

He has to blink again as he looks down to his own drink, still untouched and now diluted by the melted ice. He raises his eyes again to meet the amused ones, and he finds that he's suddenly a bit annoyed at the stranger. In a childish attempt which is also a hidden threat, he touches his glass with more strength than needed and… it's gone. The drink inside disappears as if evaporated and there isn't even a flash of red to show for it. He's… he would be proud of his control but he feels tired all over again, and it's not anything physical that he could simply sleep off. He's mentally drained and now there's not even one person he can turn to. His master is dead, his sister is far and safe, and he likes to think they both are in peace, but it's not enough, not really, to calm the formless fury in his veins.

The man has raised both his eyebrows. He's not amused anymore but whatever emotion is there is very hard to read and ‘Fon’ doesn't try particularly hard to do so. He gets up from his chair, nods once at the other in a last empty attempt at politeness and leaves just like that. 

As expected, he's not followed.

…

Tastes like blood despair. He can't really make out its limits, neither beginning nor ending. Instead he finds red in his nails and it's the kind that can't be removed unless he wants to remove his hands altogether, he sees unshed tears in beady eyes that will never blink again, he witnesses the end of hope. And it breaks him.

Something boils under his skin, and it's a lifelong anger, consuming, devouring, destroying. Red flames pour out to feed on that anger and he allows them. Because there should be no mercy for the likes of them, there should be no mercy for traitors and murderers and scum like these. 

He's angry. He hears screams in his surroundings but what does it matter. Even if they ask for forgiveness isn't it too late. The ears meant to hear it no longer have that ability, so why should he bother with allowing them to speak. 

He kills. 

It is easy. Bones are crushed under his fingers and flesh burns under his flames. He tears at limbs and bodies like a mad man and ignores whatever attempts of theirs to stop him. Bullets rain but they never reach, turned to dust before even touching his skin. The building shakes as walls are broken but he doesn't stop.

He's angry. He's angry. Their death can't seem to appease his wrath. He wants, no, he needs to grind them to dust otherwise he can't calm, can't rest, can't stop.

Then a gun meets his fist. It doesn't shatter. Instead it shines yellow and comes to meet his hits again and again and again, sometimes shooting at him, precise and intent. Suddenly his whole focus has to turn to it or else he risks death and he doesn't hesitate or stop or pause. He pours even more flames, even more burning hot anger and hits and kicks and continues on repeat.

It takes too long or maybe just an eternal moment, but when the simmering fury cools, when his muscles ache and he's bleeding and bruised all over, only then does he finally see his opponent and not the nemesis targeted in anger.

It's a familiar face that stares back, breathing heavy, one arm broken the other still holding a gun aimed at him. He finds himself a bit bewildered and bemused as he stares at pitch black eyes that still hold an unreadable emotion in them. He then stares at the gun and unexpectedly doesn't find it hateful to die at the hands of this person. How long has it been since he has gone all out and fought to his heart's content with someone? He can't even remember it, but this person is probably the only one he'll find in a long time to make him so… satiated; so he really doesn't mind being killed by him and as a killer doesn't even expect mercy. 

He nods his head a bit at the man to show that he intends to accept his death now, breathes in and stands up a bit straighter. 

And the man just lowers his gun.

‘Fon’ has to blink and looks at the man questioningly even as the other starts walking towards him. It's an almost leisurely pace somewhat unfit for the setting and the rubble that's left of the destruction. He doesn't tense as the man approaches, only follows him with his eyes until they find each other face to face. He waits for the man's next move and…

“You owe me a drink,” the man says with a smile. “And a new gun,” it's not a nice smile.

Ah. Something settles. A chain shatters in the depths of his mind and the shadow of death seems to lift just a bit.

He smiles back. Serenely. And it's probably the most calm he has felt since forever.

“I suppose I could spare some of my time to treat you.”

He is eyed sharply for a moment, before the other snorts in response. “And he speaks at last. I thought I had a few dates to go before that.”

And Fon’s brain skids to a halt. He turns utterly bewildered at the other and there's a mischievous smirk at the lips and something just a bit curious and peculiar flashing in the dark black eyes. 

“The name is Renato lovely,” the man continues, devilish smirk still there and blinding. “I look forward to our first date.”

______________________________  
-The first date goes as well as one might expect.  
-Renato doesn't consider that first meeting a date, if only because he half-panicked when Fon walked out on him.  
-No one would believe these two are most domestic when behind closed doors, but that is a story for the slightly far future.


End file.
